The turf was close and by no means deep, so that it was at times rather difficult to distinguish the footprints; the broken branches, however, showed clearly enough that the animals had gone that way quite recently. In some places the underwood was very dense, and there were a good many irregularities in the soil. All the time that my attention had been given to the breaking off of the branches, I had quite forgotten to take any account of the direction in which I had been advancing, and after three miles it occurred to me that I might have some difficulty in returning. Whilst I was pondering over my position, I became conscious of a sickening sensation, which I attributed to being tired and hungry, but almost immediately afterwards I felt a most violent pain in my temples, and my head appeared to be whirling round like a windmill. I wandered about for a while, quite realizing to myself that I could not be more than five miles from the waggon, but finally started off rapidly in what must have been precisely the opposite direction. Whether I was overcome by fatigue and pain, or whether I had experienced a slight sun-stroke, I cannot say, but to this day it is a mystery to me why, from the time I left the giraffe-track, till the lengthened shadows told of the approach of evening, it never once occurred to me to look at the sun.
Having discovered my mistake, I turned my course immediately to the east, indulging the hope that I might reach the road between Molopolole and Shoshong. But I was now too much exhausted to go far without resting. I could hardly advance more than twenty yards without stopping to recover my energies, and moreover I was beginning to suffer from the agonies of thirst. It came into my mind that perhaps I was really nearer to the waggon than I imagined, or that possibly I might be within hearing of any Masarwas that happened to have hunting-quarters somewhere near; accordingly, to attract attention, I fired off eight shots in succession. Between each I paused for a time and listened anxiously. My shots were spent in vain.
At the cost of getting severely scratched, I next clambered up an acacia, and fired two more shots from the top. They were as unavailing as the rest; there was no response, no movement in the woods.
Sensible that my strength could not carry me much farther, I began to despair. I felt unwilling to make use of my last two shots, but why should I not? My gun itself was a greater burden than I could bear.
Without considering that by doing so I should probably only attract some beast of prey, I began to shout, but the state of my exhaustion prevented my shouting long, and I sunk down upon an ant-hill, from the slippery side of which I soon rolled to the ground, my gun at my side. Here I suppose I was overpowered by the heat, as I recollect nothing except waking with a shriek of laughter at the idea of making myself heard in such a desert; this brought on a fit of coughing, which seemed to relieve my brain, but only to make me more conscious than ever of the excruciating sufferings of thirst.
In vain I felt around me in the hope of reaching some leaf that might afford sufficient moisture to refresh my parched lips, but every leaf was either withered, or rough, or hairy; at last I laid hold upon one that was quite unknown to me, and put it in my mouth, but as if fate were mocking me, it proved as acrid as gall.
Toiling on a little farther I felt my gun drop from my shoulder to the ground, and did not care to pick it up. But I had not gone far before I realized how I had surrendered my sole means of defence, and how as night came on I should be exposed to the jackals and hyænas; accordingly by a desperate effort I retraced my steps, and recovered the weapon. It was loaded with my last two shots, one of which I determined to use to try and light a fire by which I might lie down till morning. The twigs, however, would not ignite, and as I abandoned my attempt, I was aware of the gloom of despondency that was settling upon me; the wildest projects entered my brain, and I could not repress the words of delirium that I knew were escaping my lips. I fell on my knees, and the last thing I seem to recollect was finding myself in the grasp of a black man, who had pounced upon me suddenly.
SUCCOURED BY A MASARWA.
That Masarwa saved my life. He had killed a gnu that morning, and in returning towards the village to fetch his companions he had discovered me. He waited until I revived, and at once understood the signs I made that I was thirsty; opening a little leather bag that he was carrying, he took out a few berries, which I devoured eagerly, and found a welcome relief in their refreshing juice. When I had still farther regained my faculties, I set to work to make my timely benefactor comprehend that I wanted to get back to my waggon. I used the word “koloi” to designate the vehicle. It was not a Sechuana word, but had been very generally adopted, and the man grinned intelligently as he replied, “Pata-pata?” His answer was an inquiry whether I wanted the waggon-road, for which pata-pata is a corrupt Dutch expression. I nodded assent, and he pointed cheerily to the north-east; then lifting me up, he assisted me to move on; he was considerably shorter than I was, and taking my gun with his own three assegais over his left shoulder, he made me walk with my arm over his right. Hope gave new vigour to my steps, and by being allowed to rest now and then, I succeeded in getting along.